The Destruction of Daniel Kloch
by admonitio
Summary: Daniel Kloch is falling apart; his life is insane with two younger siblings, a workaholic father trying to raise the four of them, and a sister who's too self-absorbed. Celia the Dark is the only one to notice he's about to crack. (Rated for language.)
1. Author

I've been working on this for a while, and I finally-I think-finished it. The character are from Karem Finneyfrock's debut novel "The Sweet Revenge of Celia Door," and the last bit is sort of a vent. Merry Christmas!


	2. Count Down

The Destruction of Daniel Kloch

Contrary to popular belief, Daniel Kloch doesn't partake in satanic sacrifices, doesn't wear makeup and, above all, does not have a crush on Celia Door. Yes, he's Dark, and she's Dark, but he wears it so much better than her. And yeah, he wants her so bad it hurts sometimes.

People steer clear of him because they're afraid; they avoid her because of Sandy Firestone's lesbian rumors.

"Hey," he says to Celia as she stops at her locker to swap books and watches the jerky movements of her shoulder make her long, dark hair flutter. Individual strands turn gold in the light.

"What do you want?" she bites out in a sharp voice, and he steps back.

"Someone woke up on the wrong side of the coffin," he tells her, watching color flood her pretty, pale cheeks, and he leans against the wall.

"If you excuse me, I have lunch with Drake," she comments, and shoves passed him.

He wants to say something mean and cruel and make her come crawling to him, but he just nods and pretends not to care.

He totally doesn't have a thing for her, and he isn't boiling inside because Drake Berlin's having lunch with Celia and not him.


	3. 500

_5.00_

Because he sits behind Sandy Firestone, his desk is covered in bleach-blonde hair, thin little strands, and he spends most of his history class stabbing them into the open bag hanging off the back of her chair.

She's twittering with the girl next to her, Julie something, and then she sits up straight, her back like a ruler, and looks at him. Long, mascara-clumped eyelashes frame her eyes. "What's with you and Weird?"

Unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice, he crosses his arms while he responds. "We've found solace in the night and it's deep, rich promises of sweet temptations and freedom," he tells her to piss her off, watching her eyes narrow as she contemplates what he's just said, and then the seam of her lips breaks into two halves, revealing two rows of milky white teeth.

He leans back in his chair, raising an eyebrow at her predator smile as the teacher hands out paper work. And then he smiles back at her, but this one is dangerous and tight at the edges, dark like the night sky.

She turns China-white under her tan and whips back around.

He leans in close enough to see the goosebumps dotting her tanned skin and blows on the back of her neck.

She yells and bolts out of the chair.

"Sandy, I suggest you take your seat and quit disrupting my class," the teacher commands.

Flushing, Sandy does as she's told but keeps herself flush against the desk.


	4. 400

_4.00_

Daniel spots Celia on the long, silent walk home, a few paces in front of him, her hair swinging from side to side with the speed of her gait. He starts to speed up, hoping to catch up to her, but all his hope shatters into a million of ice and glass shards when he notices Drake next to her, talking about something that makes her laugh.

 _I don't care,_ he tells himself, squeezing his hands into tight fists. His palms ache. _I don't care. Idon'tcare._ _Idon'tcareyoucunt. She's not_ yours _._ The green jealousy is washed away with bright, red anger and he holds his breath and listens to the blood in his ears roar.

He concentrates so hard that he nearly blacks out, and some skinny middle schooler knocks into him. Gangly and apparently uncoordinated, the kid falls to the ground, scattering her things everywhere.

Some other middle schoolers snort and laugh, making little comments that has Daniel's blood boiling like magma beneath his skin, itching to put the little shits in place.

The girl's staring at the ground, silent, but her shoulders heave in a jerky, hiccupy way that's all too familiar.

Clenching his jaw, Daniel gets to one knee and begins to pick up her papers, murmuring words of reassurance, of encouragement.

When he gets up and hands her the crumbled papers, she launches herself at him and hugs him fiercely, her little braid swinging behind her.

The laughing kids are speechless that a high schooler would help a lowly middle schooler.

As she thanks him profusely, she smiles wide, showing off a mouthful of braces and crooked teeth, but it's genuine and so sugary sweet that he feels his heart leap at the realization he's the reason for the smile.

He offers to walk her home, but she declines and slips away, skipping down the sidewalk to catch up to a chubby girl. At the end of the street, he can see her waving furiously, and laughs to himself.

His skin prickles, and he looks up, meeting Celia Door's quiet, dark eyes framed by thick, black eyelashes. She has a contemplative expression on her face, sucking her top lip into her mouth as she worries a hangnail with the edge of her teeth.

As if hearing her name, her head whips to the side, and she stiffens for a moment before relaxing. With one last glance at him, she hurries to meet up with Drake.

Daniel pretends he isn't ready to pulverize Drake Berlin into the ground.


	5. 300

3.00

Dinner is loud and messy, the twins screaming and laughing hysterically, his dad struggling to wrestle his older sister away from her phone long enough to eat.

A drumstick bounces on the table and lands in Daniel's mashed potatoes. He picks it up, eyeballs the screaming twins, and bites on into it. The twins think it's hilarious and burst into hysterical giggles.

Dad, for the most part, looks exhausted, his eyelids dropping and his mouth pressed into a tight, thin line.

Natasha raises a manicured brow and takes another helping of risotto while she texts one-handedly under the table.

Daniel scowls at her. "Can't you put that down for once? Christ, Natasha," he snarls, dropping his drumstick back onto his plate to help his dad with the twins.

As he picks up little Nik, Natasha looks up, a bored expression dominating her face.

That makes Daniel even angrier; while he and Dad struggle to settle the twins down, Natasha can't be bothered to lift a finger to help, lest she stop talking to her boyfriend for one second.

"Natasha, put your phone away," Dad says in a sigh.

Natasha groans and sticks her lower lip out in a pout. "But Daddy," she whines, and Daniel's taut patience snaps.

"No, you put it down now. You're a part of this family, so act like it instead of _fucking_ prancing around, pretending to be above helping your dad and your brothers. Jesus, Nat, you're not the queen of England, so stop fucking acting like it!"

Natasha's face twists. Her eyes are hard, like glaciers. "I wish I wasn't part of this family," she spits. Her phone is buzzing with a continuous stream of texts from her boyfriend, but for once, she keeps her eyes on Daniel.

Neither did Mom! He takes a deep breath, feeling Nik's weight in his arms, and holds it until his lungs burn for oxygen. When he exhales, it's a low, long whistle between his teeth.

"Just shut up and help," he says, ignoring Nik yanking his hair.

Natasha's hand wraps around her phone, her fingers hovering over the power button, and then she stands up. With a cold expression, she picks up her phone and walks away; he can hear her heels on the floor, all the way to the front hall, and then they vanish in the slam of the front door.

He shakes his head and bounces Nik, who rests his cheek against his brother's arm, as Michaela begins to cry, blubbering.

Dad gives Daniel a sad look as he kisses the top of his youngest's head, bouncing her gently to slow her crying and soothe her raw emotions.

Daniel sets Nik down and punches a hole in the wall.


	6. 200

_2.00_

He doesn't get to bed until three trying to get the twins to sleep, and his knuckles are killing him, aching every time he flexes his fingers. They're muddled purple and green, splotches of yellow and blue peeking through. It's like he's splotched watercolor ink all over his hands.

All morning on Monday, everyone whispers, even the teachers.

He's "in a fight club"; he "beats up little kids"; so many things he can't keep them straight for the life of him.

His classes are fuzzy, whispers at every turn. He can't even gather the strength to muster glares.

"What happened to your hands?" a voice asks when he crouches down to replace his math workbook with his English textbook.

He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes slowly. Of course Celia fucking Door decides today of all days, the one day he isn't on his guard, to speak to him.

"Did you get in a fight?" she continues, and he sees her bend down to speak to him, her long hair slipping off her shoulders to hang down near her toes.

"No, I didn't. Since when do you listen to the rumors in this shithole?" he says.

She flinches.

He remembers the Book during eighth grade and someone sliding it to him. The crisp paper had crackled, loud like a gunshot, and his eyes crept over the first words: Things Celia Door Needs to Change. There were things like she had to shave her legs, dress better, to learn how to wear her hair differently than in a ponytail every day.

His pen had scrawled in "needs to be herself" in tiny letters, and then he'd slashed it out, ink bleeding through the paper. He wanted to burn the Book that day, but the kid next to him had elbowed him and held a hand out; he had no choice but to relinquish the Book.

"Since never," she tells him tightly, her dark eyes narrowed at him, "but it's an honest question. Most people come to school with bruises on their knuckles to show off that they've been in a fight."

She tucks some hair behind her ear, avoiding his eyes. "So did you?"

"No." He doesn't want to elaborate, but she's standing there, painfully close, her heat hitting his shoulder. Fuck.

She shifts, bumping his knee with the toe of her sneaker. "What did you hit?" she asks, and her legs turn away.

They have two minutes left until class begins.

He holds his breath until he sees stars, and his hands shake when he realizes she's gone, heading down to her science class, her long hair swinging like a pendulum behind her. The bell rings, and he just sits there, watching his hands shake.

Pulling himself to his feet, Daniel packs his backpack and hides out in the boys' bathroom until the end of school.

When he gets home, his dad's SUV is gone, meaning he's at work and will be working until probably eleven so Daniel has to take care of the twins.

Natasha can't be bothered to come help; her life revolves around her boyfriend.

With a heavy sigh, Daniel sets his backpack down and heads to the kitchen for a drink.

The twins fall asleep around four, so it's quiet now, and he closes his head, resting his forehead against the fridge door.

Behind his eyelids, images of Celia play out, her hair catching the sun, her laugh catching his attention out of the murmur of conversation, her eyes gleaming with tears when she saw her poem all over the walls, the feel of her body against his when he told her he'd help her take them down, the smile on her face when she came to class after he broke into Sandy's house to grab her poetry book, the insane, stupid, crazy, dangerous heat that seared him when she looked at him and mouthed 'thank you' that afternoon and he'd thought he's combust.

He thought of that pink mouth stained black. Lips dipped in ink. Smeared.

 _Fuck,_ he thinks, scowling, _I need help_.

He heats up some left overs, eats quietly by himself while pouring over some notes and doing his homework, makes sure the twins are okay for now, and then he heads up to his room.

His shirt hits the floor first, then his sneakers, then his jeans. He yanks on a t-shirt and climbs into bed.

Outside his window, he can hear a couple arguing and rolls over onto his side, staring at the dimly-lit picture of his mom. It was before she left, a big grin on his face as he proudly shows off his broken arm.

Daniel closes his eyes and tries not to cry the best he can.


	7. 100

_1.00_

When he wakes up, it's dreary outside, torrents of rain battering his window. The house is bustling with noise, his dad arguing with Natasha over something, one of the twins crying and the other one laughing hysterically.

"Daniel, are you awake? I need some help here!" His dad yells.

He pulls himself out of bed, slides into the first clean pair of jeans and a hoodie that he comes across, and brushes his teeth before he heads downstairs, finding some semi-clean socks in the foyer and slipping them on. When he gets to the kitchen, he can't help the curse that escapes him.

"Damn it!" He charges past Natasha, who's still arguing with their dad, and takes up Michaela, feeling her diaper to make sure she doesn't need to be changed. Nothing there. He glances around and spots the two bottles on the table and heads over.

"Natasha, please help your brother," their dad says thickly. He looks exhausted, with big black circles under his eyes and a waxy pallor to his complexion.

Daniel wonders if he'll drop any minute fast asleep and checks the formula. It's warm enough to give to Michaela.

"Why should I? They're not my kids," Natasha argues.

Daniel's already getting a headache, and it's way too early to deal with her attitude. "Because, as much as you hate it here, you're their sister."

"Wish I wasn't. No wonder Mom left."

Silence.

Dad's face crumples and he takes a shaky breath. His eyes are wet.

"Are you gonna cry?" Natasha's cold voice makes Daniel explode.

"She left because of you, you fucking _bitch_. Get the _fuck_ out before I fucking _beat the shit out of_ you. Now." Daniel's never been angrier, and the sore skin across his knuckles aches, begging to bite into her jaw or her nose, draw blood but he'd never hit a woman, even if it is his bitch sister.

Natasha looks shocked for a minute, her eyes wide, her lips trembling. "Why do you hate me?" she demands in a weak, subdued voice like she's lost her steam.

"Why do you hate _us_?" he counters darkly, guiding the rubber nipple of the bottle into Michaela's mouth. "We've done _nothing_ but love you! You know what, you stupid _cunt_? Why don't you go suck your boyfriend's dick and see if he'll let you live with him since you hate it so _fucking_ much here? Hell, maybe _he'll_ be willing to take you in since I'm sick of your shit and Dad's gonna crack cause _god forbid_ you get your head out of your ass!"

His dad looks at him, horrified, and Natasha's face turns red, and tears roll down her cheeks.

He can't give a flying fuck anymore. "I gotta get to school," he mutters, setting Michaela in her high chair and stomping away. In the hallway, he stops, takes a long breath, and fucking punches a hole into the wall.

His knuckles are all red and hurt so bad, but he ignores the pain the best he can. With a quick grunt of a goodbye, he grabs his keys, picks up his backpack, and escapes the sound of Natasha's crying.


	8. 00

0.00

His locker is blocked by a long-haired figure, and he gets angry. Really angry. "Get the fuck away from my goddamn locker," he all but yells, and the figure whips around, and his breath leaves him a rush.

Celia Door blinks her big, dark eyes at him, and fuck his life, he's hard as hell right now. "Sorry," she apologizes, eyeing him warily. "You okay?"

He shakes his head.

"Wanna talk?" She's smiling softly, and he stalks up to her, grabbing her arm. She's warm and soft, despite the cold rain soaking her sweatshirt.

"No."

What he wants and needs are two different things, and his wants are way low on the list of priorities. What he _wants_ is to kiss her, feel her lips mold to his, her soft body against him. Just once. Once.

He breathes in through his nose.

She tilts her head up at him. "Wanna get out of here?" She smiles a secret smile; the whites of her teeth are seductive and menacing.

He shouldn't skip, he knows he needs to graduate, but right now— _right now_ , he can't do this because he knows he's a ticking bomb and he's gonna fucking explode and kill everyone with the shrapnel—and she takes him by the hand, and they're running.

Her hair is hitting his face, and he doesn't even care, and he's crying—fuck, he's _crying_ in front of fucking _Celia Door—_ and he can't bring himself to fucking care because fuck today.

Fuck Natasha.

Fuck his mom.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ _._

He's shaking so hard he can barely drive, and Celia helps him into the car, and they peel out, and he's biting his lip until he bleeds, and the blood and the sting makes everything worse. For once, the pain isn't clearing his head.

A tiny hand touches his leg, and he's hard as stone, but the crying doesn't stop, and his throat hurts so bad right now. He's hiccuping and there's snot running down his face as Celia unbuckles her seat belt—they're stopped in a park somewhere—and digs around in the backpack at her feet.

"Celia."

She looks up at him, still bent over, and he can see down her shirt, and she's wearing a purple bra, and her eyes are big and dark—

"It's okay."

"It's fucking _not_." It's not like he tries to snap, but when she recoils, what little creamy color draining from her face, it makes him feel worse. "My dad is sleep deprived but he can't fucking sleep because Natasha can't fucking bother to fucking help, my mom fucking _left_ and now she has her own _fucking_ family, I'm fucking losing my mind over you, and guess what, sweetheart? I don't even _care_ anymore!"

It's not him that grabs her hand—she's so soft and her hand is like ice—and presses it into the hot skin on his throat. High color floods her cheeks, and her eyes are round. Her chest is heaving, her breasts straining against the black material of her t-shirt.

"Fuck." He lets her go. And he hits the dashboard. Again. Again. _Again._ "Fuck. Celia, I'm sorry." He's sniffling, worse than before. Today has been the worst.

"Daniel," she says softly, pulling her hand away, the other hand—lily white just like the skin at her chest, the milky white of her breasts—clutching her throat. "Daniel, look at me."

He does, with tears streaming out of his eyes, and she pulls him across the console—fuck, is she strong—and he's got a face full of her long, dark hair. "I'm scared I'll hurt someone," he whispers against the back of her neck, wrapping his arms around her. She feels soft and malleable in his arms, and he can feel her breasts, and he can feel her hummingbird heartbeat.

"It's okay. I...After everything with Drake, after my dad left, and my mom...I have to go to a therapist. I could recommend you...?"

He nods, and Celia puts her hand in his.


End file.
